“Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked. “Come and sit down.”
“I won’t stay.” She remained standing just inside the door. “I’m afraid I don’t have very encouraging news for you, my dear. I told your story to Captain Paxton and he’s not prepared to intervene.”
“What?” I shouted. “He knows those gangsters have shoved an innocent girl into an insane asylum and he’s not going to do anything?”
She put her hand on my shoulder. “Molly, he considered it carefully, I assure you.”
“Oh, I bet he did!”
“But in the end his opinion was that the girl was currently out of her mind and thus belonged in an insane asylum, even though she was admitted there by dubious means.”
“Did you tell him I’d be prepared to take care of her?” I demanded.
“Molly, you have no claim on her. You’re not a family member. You’ll have to let matters be for now. I’m sure, if she recovers her senses they’ll release her.”
“No, they won’t.” I could feel tears stinging in my eyes.
“I don’t know why you’re taking this particular case so personally,” she said. “You’re a detective. You know the world is full of sadness and injustice and you have to remain detached from your work or go mad yourself.”
“But she’s not my work. I found her,” I said. “I believe I was meant to find her. Meant to save her. And save her I will, one way or another.”
After she had gone I sat at my kitchen table, staring out at the December grayness. The world outside matched my mood—swirling fog, bare branches from which moisture dripped. How could Daniel have deserted me when I needed him? If he’d been in charge of the case, and not that stupid Captain Paxton, then all would be well. At least he’d have been able to comfort and reassure me. I realized that sometimes I fought too hard to be a strong and independent woman. Maybe I had shut him out one time too often and he no longer thought that I needed or wanted him close to me. I was almost ready to rush up to Westchester, find him, and make him come back to New York with me. But my pride wouldn’t let me do it.
I tried to tell myself that Jessie would be all right. This was, after all, the Twentieth Century. Great strides were being made in treating the insane. There were other doctors like my friend Dr. Birnbaum who now specialized in the sick mind. Maybe she was in the right place. Maybe they’d cure her.
Then I decided I’d write a letter to the head of the asylum, asking to be notified as soon as he saw any improvement in her, letting him know that I was willing to take care of her myself. He’d be a reasonable man. I’d have her out in no time at all.
I wrote the letter, weighing every word I put down. At last I was satisfied and had completed a whole page with no blots, which in itself was a miracle for me. I found a stamp and set out to post it. But even as I dropped it into the mailbox, I found that I couldn’t keep the old worries at bay. What about that dream I had had last night? Was it a warning that the asylum was a terrible place? After all, Nelly Bly had gained notoriety by having herself committed and thus exposing the horrors of such places.
I stopped in midstep on the sidewalk. I’d go and see Elizabeth and find out the truth. So I turned away from Patchin Place and made for the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Hot chestnut men and Christmas carolers reminded me of the approaching season. It certainly didn’t feel like a time of goodwill to all men!
Elizabeth had obviously just risen and was still in her robe having breakfast in her suite, but she looked pleased to see me.
“Molly. You have news about your silent girl?”
“News, but not good. It seems she has been admitted to the insane asylum on Ward’s Island.”
“Mercy me. That’s not good news, as you say. Is there nothing you can do about it?”
“I’ve tried everything I can,” I said. “I’ve just written to the doctor in charge. Everyone has told me that the girl belongs in there. So I came to you. I have to know—is it such a terrible place, do you think? Will she be treated and cured?”
I saw the answer from her face before she spoke. “Molly, those places are one step away from hell,” she said. “In spite of the article I wrote, and the public outcry at the conditions, I’ve come to believe that little has been done to improve things. We’ve no way of improving them, you see. We just don’t know how to treat the insane. Most of the time we just don’t bother.”
“Then I want you to help me,” I said. “You managed to have yourself admitted to a similar institution once. I want your help in getting me admitted there.”
She shook her head firmly. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)
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